He paused, for the harpist might be—must be Miss De Lancie.
He listened.
Soon the chords of the lyre were swept by a magic hand that belonged only to one enchantress, and the instrument responded in a low, deep moan, that presently swelled in a wild and thrilling strain. And then the voice of the improvvisatrice stole upon the ear—that wondrous voice, that ever, while it sounded, held captive all ears, silent and breathless all lips, spellbound all hearts!—it arose, first tremulous, melodious, liquid, as from a sea of tears, then took wing in a wild, mournful, despairing wail. It was a song of renunciation, in which some consecrated maiden bids adieu to her lover, renouncing happiness, bewailing fate, invoking death. Philip Helmstedt listened, magnetized by the voice of the sorceress, with its moans of sorrow, its sudden gushes of passion or tenderness, and its wails of anguish and despair. And when at last, like the receding waves of the heart’s life tide, the thrilling notes ebbed away into silence and death, he remained standing like a statue. Then, with self-reflection and the returning faculty of combination, came the question:
“What did this song of renunciation mean?” And the next more practical inquiry, should he remain in the library, awaiting the doubtful event of her coming, or should he enter the music-room? A single moment of reflection decided his course.
He advanced softly, and opened the listed and silently-turning doors, and paused an instant to gaze upon a beautiful tableau!
Directly opposite to him, at the extremity of the thickly carpeted room, was a deep bay window, richly curtained with purple and gold, through which the noon-day sun shone with a subdued glory. Within the glowing shadows of this recess sat Marguerite beside the harp. A morning robe of amber-hued India silk fell in classic folds around her form. Her arms were still upon the harp, her inspired face was pale and half averted. Her rich, purplish tresses pushed off from her temples, revealed the breadth of brow between them in a new and royal aspect of beauty. Her eyes were raised and fixed upon the distance, as if following in spirit the muse that had just died from lips of fire. She was so completely absorbed, that she did not heed the soft and measured step of Philip Helmstedt, until he paused before her, bowed and spoke.
Then she started to her feet with a brow crimsoned by a sudden rush of emotion, and thrown completely off her guard, for the moment, she confronted him with a home question.
“Philip Helmstedt! what has brought you here?”
“My deep, my unconquerable, consuming love! It has broken down all the barriers of etiquette, and given me thus to your presence, Marguerite De Lancie,” he replied, with a profound and deprecating inclination of the head.
She had recovered a degree of self-possession; but the tide of blood receding had left her brow cold and clammy, and her frame tremulous and faint; she leaned upon her harp for support, pushed the falling tresses from her pale, damp forehead, and said, in faltering tones: